Sacrifice: Rise From The Ashes
by Whispers Of A Mad God
Summary: "Ages turn and Legends crumble, for the world awaits a Sacrifice..." The Wizarding World's so-called Chosen One paid a price to defeat the Dark Lord, a price she doesn't mind paying; and so Amaryllis Potter-Black is reincarnated in Fiore as the elder sister of Lucy Heartfilia. Gray!Metamorph!Powerful!Harry; Fem!Bisexual!Harry; Powerful(but-not-godlike)!Lucy; Advanced!Complex!Magic.
1. Information Overload

**A/N: Whisper here ~**

**Warning: I _do __not__ condone _the actions seen in this fic. Some awful things will happen and the bad guys (temporarily) get away with it. The opinions stated in this fic _do __not__ reflect_ the opinions of the author.**

**Disclaimer: I own none of it, other than the idea and the words. Everything else goes to whoever they go to.**

* * *

_Sacrifice: Rise From The Ashes_

_by Whispers Of A Mad God_

_Chapter One; Information Overload_

* * *

**July 30, X771**

**Heartfilia Manor, Eastern Fiore**

**Sixth Floor, Flower's Room**

**Amaryllis Potter-Black / Heartfilia**

* * *

I've always been... _different._

_ 11:51. 11:52. 11:53._

There was the major difference, of course. My body was constantly... _changing._ My hair would darken to a rich, royal gold, only to lighten to the pure, brilliant hue of the snow a minute later. Mother would snip the silky strands to a pixie cut before I went to bed, and I would wake up in the morning with long, thick locks reaching down to my thighs. My eyes would likewise rotate around the color wheel, flashing from chocolate brown to forget-me-not blue, from an unnatural crimson red to slate gray, only to spend an inordinate amount of time on a sharp, emerald green. My skin tone would alternate from dark and light shades; I would have the high cheekbones of nobility one minute and the heart-shaped faces of the fae the next; my incisors would sharpen to an unholy edge or flatten like an herbivore.

That could be passed off as my magic, though. I could be some rare form of intuitive take-over mage, who had my magical inheritance when I was still in Mother's womb. I knew that wasn't the answer though. Everyone knew it.

There were smaller differences, too. I just _knew _my shifting ability made me a metamorphmagus, although I couldn't pronounce the word yet and no one's ever heard of such a thing. My tutors would be teaching me my numbers and I would get every single question right, even the material we haven't covered yet. I almost never cried like little Lucy did; I was rarely interested in the victorian dollhouse or the building blocks or the other children's toys; I would bore of the fairy tales Father read to me and Lucy and be interested in older, more mature material.

I was quiet, inexplicably so. I inwardly hated how high-pitched and helpless my voice sounded, so I rarely spoke except to practice my diction. I would curl up in either of my parents' laps and just sleep, for hours at a time. I would never throw a tantrum when it was curfew and time to sleep. Nor did I kick up a fuss when Father had to work or Mother had to speak with one of her old guild friends.

Father was proud; he would rave about the talent I was sure to develop for economics with my curiously mature mind. His innate arrogance, squashed by Mother though it may be, would drive him to crow about superior breeding and the future of the Heartfilia Konzern.

Mother was worried, though. And it was her that finally summoned a doctor from the local city to inspect me. When his mundane techniques parsed out nothing but an advanced mind, she beckoned him to cast a magic delving spell – to check for rare conditions. Not a thing showed up.

Eventually, she stopped trying.

_11:54. 11:55. 11:56._

I didn't though. I may be only just turning six in four minutes, but I knew something was up. Just didn't know what it is yet.

Although I had the nagging doubt that I knew, already.

_11:57. 11:58. _

I blacked out.

_11:59._

I heard cruel, mocking laughter muffled by a thick veil; I saw a flash of impossibly sharp emerald green flicker across my eyelids; I tasted the metallic tang of fresh blood. A keening, feminine scream sounded in the deepest recess of my mind, both alien and familiar.

_12:00._

* * *

_ "I know I'll never be able to replace him, Amy, I mean – Prongs was something else, but he was your father. No one can just, just step in after that. It's just a parchment, just a legal thing, really, but I thought – I'd like – I mean, oh, fuck it."_

_ "Siri?"_

_ "...Yeah?"_

_ "I would love to be your daughter."_

* * *

_A Post-It! Note, folded into a crude airplane, glided in through the doorway of the Headmaster's Office and alighted gently on the desk._

_"My cute little Master,_

_ "Thank you ever-so-much for rounding up those Soul Anchors for me. I've been meaning to get my grimy, skeletal hands on a certain uprising Dark Lord for years, now. Even if you didn't have the ability to choose your own fate, I'd give you the options as a thank you present._

_ "I know you must be terribly busy, being dead and all, so I'll skip to the chase. Thing is, you're at what we in the business call a crossroads."_

* * *

_"...gretfully, I am afraid I must inform you that the position for Divination Mistress of-"_

_ His voice cut off abruptly as he saw me undergo a rapid change, straightening like cold iron in my chair. My eyes, large and pleading behind thick-rimmed glasses, became glazed and unfocused. Dust and serpent venom hung heavy in the air. I knew, I just knew, that I suddenly looked old. Ancient. Arcane. Powerful._

_ And then, I spoke._

_ "Ages turn and Legends crumble, for the world awaits a Sacrifice... __The One with the power to Vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied Him, born as the Seventh Month dies... And the Dark Lord will mark her as his equal. But she will have the power the Dark Lord knows not... And both must die at the hands of the Other for neither can Fall while the other Survives... Born to those who have thrice defied Him, born as the Seventh Month dies... __For the world awaits a Sacrifice..."_

_ The last thing I saw was the Headmaster blinking rapidly in surprise, before raising the Elder Wand and incanting a single word._

_ "Obliviate."_

* * *

_**Curious, curious. You won't be as easy to Sort as the other naïve eleven-year-olds. You are... different.**_

_I'm sick of being different. I just want to go somewhere I'll belong._

_**Oh, but dear Amaryllis, you will always be different. But it is good that you have said that. It seems Gryffindor just... isn't for you.**_

_How so?_

_**Oh, the regal Lions are the House of the Brave and Noble, of course. But that's just on the surface. Do you want glory? Do you want to be Britain's jewel, the Girl-Who-Loved? Do you want to be even... more... famous...?**_

_No. Never._

_**Then they are not for you. And neither are the oh-so-clever Snakes. You have the cunning in spades, of course; but you lack their ambition, you lack their dream. Not to mention, Slytherin House has been... corrupted, over the years. You're a survivor, not a prince or a sycophant.**_

_Right. Thank you?_

_**… And that leaves Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff for you, Amaryllis Potter. Choose.**_

_You're the expert. Why do I have to choose?_

_**Do I have to spell it out for you, little girl? **_

_** Ravenclaw will satiate your thirst for knowledge, your sharp mind. You will grow powerful there. Surrounded by learning, with academic competition on all sides, you will become one of the brightest of this age. One day, you could stand over the Headmaster himself.**_

_** Hufflepuff will give you the companionship you've always desired. Since your family has forsaken you, you will be given the opportunity to create your own. Your loyalty is hard-won, Amaryllis, but it is also undying. Helga herself would weep tears of joy to have one like you in her House.**_

_** Now. Choose.**_

_What a ridiculous question. You know what I want._

_**Aye, I do. Just needed to make sure that you knew, as well. Because, well, you're clearly a Slytherin with the heart of a...**_

** "HUFFLEPUFF!"**

* * *

_"You did it? You did it! Awh, yeah! How many Hufflepoints is that? A-ha!"_

_ "Well, Siri?"_

_ "Well, what?"_

_ "What's my name?"_

_ "With a form like that, can't be anything other than Vixen, now can it?"_

* * *

_I gracefully rose to my feet, pressing my back up against Dora's._

_ "Wotcher, Vixen! Long time no see!"_

_ "Aye, Onyx. Been busy breaking into the Ministry."_

_ "That was you? Ha! Shoulda known. Auntie Em was having kittens."_

_ "You better show me the memory later, Dora. Ready?"_

_ "Been ready."_

* * *

_I spoke aloud to the dictation quill, straining so my voice could be heard over the din of hundreds of muggles._

_ "Sweet sister,_

_ "I know I never mentioned this during the term, and it really is no one's fault other than my own, but... I live with my muggle relatives, the Dursleys. They don't like me much, Suze. Thing is, they're kind of not... well. Here._

_ "Do you think you could maybe pick me up? I'm still at Kings Cross Station, right outside Platform Nine. If not, could you send Hedwig back lightning-quick? I'll owl Tonks._

_ "Thanks!_

_ "Amaryllis Lily Potter."_

* * *

_ There was the sharp pounding of a gavel on magically reinforced wood._

_ There was the clear and authoratative call to order._

_ There was the feather-soft whisper of hundreds of Lords and Ladies taking their thrones._

_ "We have summoned one Amaryllis Lily Potter-Black today on the charge of Underage Magic in front of a Muggle. The spell in question is the Patronus Charm. Now-"_

_ "Can you really cast a corporeal Patronus?" Auntie Em inquired, cutting through the bleating of the rapidly reddening Minister._

_ "Yes, Director. It takes the form of a Grim. Would you like to see?"_

_ "Of course! Someone get this young lady her wand. Quickly, now!"_

* * *

I woke with a blinding headache, as seventeen years of memories and knowledge wound their way through my six-year-old mind. I moaned, clasping my little fingers around my skull and burrowing deeper into the four-poster bed. Licking my lips, I slowed my heart rate and my breathing, smiling tiredly. I rolled over on my bed, relaxing on my back. Thick, crimson hair splayed around me.

"This is your second chance, Amy," I murmered quietly. "Your second chance at a fulfilling, honest life. Are you going to make the best of it, or what?"

* * *

**A/N: Her first life is made intentionally vague. Will be expanded upon later, much later.**

**Toodles.**

**Whispers out.**


	2. Walk On Your Own Two Feet

_Sacrifice: Rise From The Ashes_

_by Whispers Of A Mad God_

_Chapter Two; Walk On Your Own Two Feet_

* * *

**July 31, X771**

**Heartfilia Manor, Eastern Fiore**

**Sixth Floor, Flower's Room**

**Amaryllis Potter-Black / Heartfilia**

* * *

_"Merry met, Lady Lestrange," I called mockingly. I dropped into an insultingly deep bow, not daring to lower my Avada Kedavra green eyes from her vibrantly violet orbs. I licked my soft, pink lips, revealing a hint of sharpened incisors. Rising to a dueling stance, I gracefully stepped over the corpse of a Sixth Year 'Claw._

_ "Merry met, cousin!" Bellatrix cooed, dipping into a long-practiced curtsy. She absentmindedly Banished a fallen Death Eater away, wandlessly, clearing the general area of distractions. She glanced quickly around Hogwarts' Great Hall, ignored the din of dying men, before snapping back and beginning the duel to the death with a Cruciatus._

_ Being a metamorph and an animagus, Transfiguration is my forte; McGonogall used to lament my Sorting into Hufflepuff for this very reason. My holly wand swished and flicked, Transfiguring a chunk of Slytherin House's table into a wooden barrier. The Unforgivable smashes through it, dissipating and wrecking the wall into splinters. My wand never stops moving, transforming the rubble into a roaring lion. The beast has the fangs of a snake, dripping with black venom: I always blamed it on the Basilisk toxin in my blood, but can't be certain._

_ "Gnasher" makes it three paces before it's slammed with a Cruciatus, but a Compulsion has it charging forwards anyway. Bellatrix steals the traitor's Sectumsempra, severing the creature's right foreleg and crippling it. Already three ropes are conjured, snaking their way towards her with malicious intent. While she's dealing with Gnasher, I had Transfigured them into metal chains – magically exhausting, but more difficult to deal with._

_ She Banishes them away from her regardless and falls into a spell chain of Dark curses and the occasional Cutter, but I'm already conjuring more. I play it messy, shooting for quantity over quality. Thick ropes, wooden walls, a Summoned segment of Ravenclaw table, a swarm of cackling canaries, wickedly sharpened lances: aimed not to kill but to overwhelm, knowing the Dark Lord's Right Hand was out of my league and playing to my strengths._

_ Killing Curses, Blood-Boilers, and Entrail-Extrailers are flung from her wand with barely a second in-between. My horde of random shit shields me from the worst of it, and I'm dancing side to side to evade the rest. I Animate the corpse of a fallen Death Eater, turning him into a Poor Man's Inferius. Too late: the back edge of a Sectumsempra slices clean through my shoulder, tearing through my tunic and knocking me to the cold ground._

_ I transform into Vixen, rolling on my back and saving my life from a hastily cast Killing Curse. Green eyes flash dangerously as I leap into the air and shift back to human mid-jump. Realizing I have more than enough material scattered around to begin my assault, I switch to offensive and begin my Transfiguration spree._

_ Gnasher's legs melts into his body, Transfiguring into a thick faux Basilisk. I throw detail to the wind and his hide remains orange with stripes of white. He rushes onward with no regard to his own safety, and Bellatrix focuses all her attention on the behemoth. I grin wickedly and shift my eyes to the fallen ropes, walls, and lances._

_ Holly wood twirls and dances, as the wreckage is Transfigured into a horde of hissing serpents. Some are no longer than my middle finger, others no shorter than my entire arm. All have the same sizzling venom as the fake Basilisk. A Sonorus-enhanced Parseltongue command has the entire swarm rushing towards the Death Eater._

_ Bellatrix realizes her error the moment she finishes off Gnasher Mark Two. The snakes are too many and varied for her to Banish or Vanish without getting bit halfway through. She cackles and her wand ignites with the only spell I fear more than the Killing Curse._

_ "Fiendfyre!" She screams the Uncontrollable, her mad shriek piercing the din and causing an uproar. The two dozen wizards still fighting in the Great Hall, Light and Dark both, turn and sprint towards the sole surviving exit. I follow, swallowing my scream of rage and fear as the last of them – a Gryff in my year by the name of Parvati Patil – collapses the hallway with a Bludgeoner. Her face looks apologetic but she'd do it again, if she had to._

_ There's no defense against Fiendfyre except getting the hell away, and I'm trapped in a room with a suicidal Dark witch who has no qualms in summoning it. An insane idea sparks in my mind, and I don't question it. I hurl Piercers and Bludgeoners and other destructive spells at the ground underneath me, denting it. I pool an unhealthy amount of magic behind my wand and fire off an overpowered Sectumsempra at the point._

_ I leap into the hole and utilize my metamorph talent to become smaller – four foot one and malnourished, anorexic, tiny – and summon the strongest shield I know. The Diamond Arc covers the makeshift bunker, sucking my magic from my core by the gallon. I hold it until the oppressive heat stops licking at my face, and let the magic dissolve._

_ The Great Hall is utterly barren – every last thing destroyed by the Fiendfyre. Almost everything._

_ I crawl out of the crack in the ground, panting heavily, and scream in surprise and pain as a Bludgeoner hits me in the kisser. Somehow, Bellatrix survived the Uncontrollable. Must've learned the trick from the Dark Tosser. She stalks towards me, licking the end of her wand and skipping in glee._

_ "Welcome to the family, cousin! I heard all about sweet Sirius adopting you, and that makes. You. A. Black! It really is too bad that I had to kill him, but the blood traitor wouldn't take the Mark – oh, how rude of me! You probably want to meet him, don't you? In a minute, dear, no need to be hasty. It's play time with Auntie Bella. CRUCIO!"_

_ It's curious, how time wheels ever onward during a Cruciatus – it only takes a moment, but a moment that seems to last hours. The thousand knives pushes me to the brink and past it, and I struggle not to pass out._

_ I understand, now. If I had the chance to throw a Cruciatus at her like I did back in Fifth Year, I wouldn't fuck it up this time._

_ "No!" A familiar voice screams, and the Torture Curse ends as abruptly as it began. I suck in a tremulous breath._

_ "Another cousin! It's my lucky day!" I watch as none other than Nymphadora Tonks charges towards me. She must've heard the Fiendfyre and come to check it out. She's a powerful witch; after the Fiendfye weakened the walls, I'm not really surprised she found a way in._

_ I stare, transfixed, as the battle wears on. As curses are flung like candy and blood splatters the walls._

_ As two sickly green curses slice through the air, and both my cousins drop to the floor, dead._

_ I screamed..._

… And woke up.

My breathing is heavy, my chest rising up and down at a rapid pace. I couldn't remember the dream_ (nightmare)_, or perhaps memory, and chalked it up to my mind pushing all the monsters under the bed. Long minutes pass as I force my body under control, as the terror bleeds away and is replaced by a powerful relief.

I start to laugh, because I was finally _free!_ Everyone I know and loved was dead or alive, and either way I would never see them again, but I had a new family now. Lucy and Mother and Father and Capricorn and Maid Teresa and -

My laugh drops into giggling, and I roll across my bed and onto the floor. I crush my notebook as I do so, but don't bother fixing the tears in the pages. I couldn't sleep after my awakening at midnight, when seventeen years worth of memories and knowledge flooded my brain. I had instead focused my brainpower towards the Arithmancy and Runecraft formulae for an idea I had a couple years back, a combat and hostage-taking spell superior to the Stunning Charm. It appears I fell asleep on the diagram of the rune for _violet._

A handful of minutes later, I stepped out of the shower humming to the Weird Sisters' _The Strength To Go On _with a half-smile quirking my lips. Looking back at my six years in Fiore, I couldn't help but smirk; so many little things from my past seeped through whatever mental barrier Death set up. I would hum tunes no one in Fiore has ever heard of, doodle Vixen on my homework assignments, or stop to pet every black dog I came across.

Knowing Father would expect me to wear something nice, I chose a beautiful dress from my walk-in closet. The fabric was predominantly silver, with black lace around the sleeves and the hem. The three-layered skirt was longer in the back, and matched wonderfully with my white knee-high boots.

After applying some light make-up, I contemplated attempting to shift into Vixen. As adorable as they may be, I was afraid of permanently affixing a furry tail or ears to myself. After worrying about doctors and irreparable damage and eternal humiliation and all that responsible stuff, I decided to just try it and fuck the consequences. Luckily for me, the transformation flowed flawlessly, and I skipped out of my room and down the hall intent on surprising my beloved family. Today was going to be a good day.

After all, today is the day Mother gives me my first silver key. Summoning a spirit was going to be, as Sirius used to put it, _"as easy as Hufflepuff witches."_

* * *

I was an idiot.

I, the Mistress of Death, the Girl-Who-Lived, slayer of the Dark Lord Voldemort, bane of over a hundred Death Eaters, required nearly four months to summon one of the lightest silver keys in existence. After which, I promptly blacked out and slept for an entire twenty-four hours. Lucy, my adorable little sister, who was _four years old,_ after _stealing_ a key from our Mother in the dead of night, managed it before me. At least I had an excuse, though; not that the sting of embarrassment needled me any less.

Mother was one of the greatest Celestial Spirit Mages to ever walk Fiore; not only was she the Master of three of the Zodiac, but she could summon and sustain all three of them for well over an hour. She didn't become so strong by being stupid, either. She quickly realized my desire to join a guild like she had. She understood my drive to make a name for myself. (Although, my reasoning was a bit different than she believed.

In the Wizarding World, I've been famous since I could walk and talk, famous for something I didn't do, famous for the tragic deaths of my parents. In Fiore, though, I was a nobody – the daughter of a merchant and an S-Class Mage, yes, but a nobody all the same. The very thought was exhilarating. Any renown I accrued was mine and mine alone.

I was... _free._)

By Wizarding standards, I was a combat prodigy; I scored an Outstanding on my Defense NEWT halfway through my Sixth Year. I learned the tricks of the Death Eaters for five hours every Thursday my Fourth Year from Barty Crouch Junior, whom I foolishly believed at the time to be Mad-Eye Moody. And Fifth Year, I spent that same time slot learning the tricks of the Aurors from the actual Mad-Eye Moody.

But magic itself is different in Earthland, and I need to learn how to fight Earthland mages. So when she finally acquiesced to my demands and gave me the key to Caelum the Chisel, and told me Capricorn would teach me swordfighting once I managed to summon it, I brushed aside my fledgling Spellcrafting project and focused solely on celestial spirit magic. I thought it would be easy. I was wrong.

_"While __you were sleeping, an old friend of mine came and took a look at your magical core. We've discovered why celestial magic is so difficult for you." My beautiful Mother murmered the words softly, seated on the edge of my bed. She ran her hand through my thick locks, currently the same red as my (first) mother's hair. After a long minute, she continued. "Do you know what magical specialization is?"_

_ I shook my head no. Such a thing didn't exist in the Wizarding World._

_ "When ambient magic from Earthland seeps into a wizard's magical core, which is located within a mage's soul, slowly refilling it, the magic itself is colorless. It can be used for any kind of magic, from lightning to earth to celestial. Anything. And when a mage is born, their core is likewise colorless._

_ "But over the years as the mage practices a specific branch of magic, like me and my celestial spirit keys, the core will take on that magic's characteristic. The more I practice it, the easier it gets, as the ambient magic is turned into celestial spirit magic in my core before I use it. However, I have become unable to use other types of magic – such as lightning or earth._

_ "Your core has already taken on the characteristics of a magic, a magic my old guild master didn't recognize. According to him, it is both white and black curled tightly around each other. This means that your soul has already spent years practicing magic. I don't know how._

_ "However, if you would like to learn celestial spirit magic regardless, there is a way. Some mages have what is referred to as a dual magical core. By practicing two branches of magic at the same time, their core has come to accept both. It is difficult and will take you years, during which Lucy will surpass you in celestial magic, but it is possible."_

_ For a long number of minutes, I thought about it, I really did._

_ But there was never any question. Not really._

_ "I'll do it."_

After that conversation with my beloved Mother, I organized my schedule anew. I was already taking scores of classes, though. For all my Mother's renown and the adoration and desire of Lucy and I, Father was still the patriarch of the house. We were given a full regimen of classes along with the express command to ace them.

Most of them were the typical aristocratic talents required of the rich and elite. Histories; genealogy; classical literature; piano; renaissance culture; etiquette; mathematics; household affairs; archery; oration; various other useful or pointless things; and dance.

Capricorn was a talented and skilled teacher, choosing to teach me how to play to our strengths. While we were still far too young to ever be called willowy or graceful, it was clear to anyone who looked twice that the Lucy would be a carbon copy of our mother once she was her age. And despite being able to manipulate the dynamics of my body with a thought, I couldn't grow muscle on a whim, and was thus in the same boat as my adorable little sister.

And so 'Uncle' Capricorn took over our dancing classes and, now that I had summoned Caelum successfully, mixed in my swordsmanship lessons. I soon developed a style that revolved around evasions, deflections, grace, and counter-strikes. The twin knives, one of Caelum's forms, were highly attuned to such a style.

Caelum, being the ultimate jack-of-all-trades, had several forms he could assume. Two of which Capricorn taught me how to fight with: twin knives and the staff. The knives themselves are more akin to short swords, having a thin double-edged blade around the length of Uncle's forearm. The staff is a different beast entirely; the shaft is taller than I am, cold to the touch and foreign to wield. But after months of nightly practice, I was beginning to approach mediocre. I wouldn't be winning any awards any time soon, but at least I was less likely to accidentally maim myself.

Caelum was one of four keys Mother gave me: Caelum the Chisel; Corvus the Crow; Lupus the Wolf; and Capricorn the Goat. Corvus had nearly no combat ability, but was an impressive scout. Lupus was a skilled fighter, and with enough magic could manifest duplicates of himself. Capricorn... summoning the Zodiac was still beyond me, but there were more ways to use a key than a standard summoning anyways.

When I wasn't learning how to be a proper _(pureblood)_ princess, or learning how to stab my enemies in the back with a knife, I spent my time enchanting or spellcrafting. Both of those magical disciplines required only Arithmancy and Runecraft, neither of which needed a wand. Susan and Hannah had convinced me to take both of those classes with them back in Third Year, and while I never really had the time to play around with that form of magic during the war, I wasn't on a time crunch in Fiore.

Although, there's a reason why spellcrafters made so much money back in the Wizarding World. It's an incredibly simplistic reason, too.

Spellcrafting is _hard._

It is the only branch of Wizarding Magic that is more science then art save for the elusive and famous Alchemy. The textbook definition runs along the lines of _"the combination of Runecraft and Arithmancy in a ritual-esque setting, to stitch a spell into the fabric of Magic herself."_ Not only is exacting accuracy required, but anywhere from hours to months of preparatory work to whittle down the various magical laws and formulae into a single, comprehensive string of runes and numbers.

The creation process for simple spells like _Lumos_ or even _Stupefy_ are short, novice things that someone practiced in the field like I can determine in a handful of minutes. Even more complex spells such as the Bone Breaker Hex or the Animation Charm aren't as difficult to create, although they are more trying to actually cast. The Mastery level work that takes months of Arithmancy and Runecraft to develop a single spell of typically refer to the highest rank of magic: sentient wards; weather-bending charms; elemental manipulation; unbreakable curses; and the like. Spells like Fiendfyre and the Fire Whip. Most of which is beyond me, as I haven't so much as completed my standard Hogwarts education.

The final product begins in a 'convergence point,' the rune for _unity_ engraved within a perfect circle. The strand of runes then spirals out following the Golden Ratio, growing ever larger the more complex the spell is. The precise effect the spell in question is intending to create is always strung together first, meticulously detailed in the chosen runic language.

After the _what_ is written down, the _how_ comes next. Theoretically, the most powerful spells can be cast with nothing more than a flick of the wand and a spoken word. In effect, the amount of extra magic bleeding off the witch who attempts such a thing will land them in St Mungo's or worse, dead. That is where chants and wand movements come in: the longer the casting time, the more refined the magic. Adding such prerequisites to the spell crafted sacrifices speed and simplicity for magical efficiency. It enables witches with an average magical core (like me) to cast Dumbledore- and Riddle- esque spells without collapsing into a magical coma.

The only problem, is it takes more time. Luckily for me, time is something this second life of mine has an abundance of.

The _how_ also includes control of the spell: like how Animation Charms require a certain amount of mental dexterity; how most Dark curses such as the Unforgivables require the 'negative' emotions _(hatred; lust; domination; sadism; desire)_; how most Light charms such as the Fidelius and the Patronus require the 'positive' emotions _(trust; joy; love; sacrifice)_; and how most elemental magic require the traits of said sphere _(determination; freedom; apathy; passion)_.

No longer did I have access to the deluxe Black Family Library, so if I wanted to improve my magical repertoire I had to learn to do so the hard way. And without my textbooks on Runecraft and Arithmancy, it's been slow going.

But I'll be damned if I let that get in the way. It's time to walk on my own two feet.

The first spell I created since Death reincarnated me into Fiore is the product of an idea I stole from Neville of all people all the way back in Fifth Year. He and I had been on our way to the Room of Requirement for a meeting of the DA halfway through second term when we chanced across some Slytherin Fourth Years keeping watch, knowing an illegal club was being held nearby. I caught Nev's eye, threw my Invisibility Cloak over the both of us, and we attacked.

We both cast a near-silent _Stupefy,_ knocking out two of the three Snakes instantly. The problem began when the third and final Snake, showcasing his House's cunning, didn't bother trying to strike back. His casting of _Rennervate_ on his fallen comrades brought them back to consciousness, and they were _pissed off._

If it hadn't been for my Invisibility Cloak and a healthy dose of luck, their synchronized Stunners would have clipped us and we'd have been on the first train to Kings Cross. The Toad had been playing at Headmistress at the time, and was searching for an excuse to expel us for weeks.

After we (barely) managed to knock out all three of them, Neville had remarked that a better Stunner would have solved our problem before it even began. The idea stuck with me, and I searched the library for a spell that would not only put my target to sleep, but keep them that way until I and I alone applied the counter-charm. Not only would it prove superior to a _Stupefy_ in combat, but would be far more useful in the taking of hostages as well. Needless to say, I wasn't able to find anything. And at the time, I had neither the skill nor the time to spellcraft my idea.

_Somnus Sempra,_ I called it once I was finally able to create it. I crafted the violet charm's counter next, and named it _Libera Sempra. _Struck by a sudden idea, I altered the formula for the newly crafted Ever-Sleeping Charm and transformed it from a ray spell to a mist, and named it the Ever-Sleeping Fog Charm: _Somnus Sempra Nebula. _I then enchanted a silver locket Mother had given me with the counter-charm, so I'd be immune to the _Nebula_ should an errant gust of wind prove hostile.

To say I was proud of my accomplishment would be an understatement.

Now all I needed was my wand, both of which Death has promised me on my eleventh nameday, along with the other two Deathly Hallows. But until that day, I would just practice what I could.

I was practicing holding Corvus' Gate open one day when the two of us struck up a conversation. The beautiful Crow had a sly wit, hundreds of years of knowledge, and a childish mind. It amazed me that the vast majority of celestial mages never seem to hold a casual conversation with their spirits. When I asked Corvus for tricks and tips in the field of celestial magic, he was happy to help. As a result, I now have mastered an incredibly useful ability called Inking that hasn't been used in over two hundred years.

By holding a key in my hand, pooling my magic into it, then willing the energy back into my body, I can dissolve a celestial spirit key into ink which promptly forms a tattoo on my skin. With enough focus, I can maneuver the ink around my body. After some practice I realized I could summon them that way, without having to solidify the key – _ever. _

Needless to say, I now had three silver and one gold tattoo in a spiral around my left wrist. Father was not amused.

I thought about showing Lucy the trick, but the protective older sister in me didn't want her getting any tattoos until she was forty. Nevermind that the tattoos weren't actually permanent. But after seventeen years of yearning for a family and a little sister to lavish affection on, I was determined to do a proper job. Logic be damned.

There were other tricks as well: some I learned from my spirits; some I learned from Mother; some I learned from the Ashley Family Grimoire that's been in Mother's line for a century. I added the Inking talent to the grimoire when no one was looking. Adding my own ability to the hallowed pages was strangely empowering.

Two years passed in this happy schedule of mine. My little sister's sixth birthday came and went, and Mother gifted Lucy her first _official_ silver key; she summoned adorable Canis Minor only a minute later. My eighth birthday came as well, and I was able to summon Capricorn for nearly twenty seconds; a personal record. I spellcrafted well over a dozen spells, discovering a talent for it that I knew I would come to rely on in the coming years. For the first time in both of my lives, I was truly content.

Then Halloween came and fucked it up again.

* * *

**A/N: Next Chapter: _Of Cloaks And Masks: Samhain._**

**(Don't you find it funny that horrible shit always happens to Potter on Halloween? I find it hilarious. That trend will continue in this story.)**

**(There won't be a proper action scene for a little while, so I included the dream for kicks. That being said, something very important was hinted at in that scene. Another hint towards it will be shown in the next chapter. I can guarantee that none of you will guess it. Ha!)**

**If you have a suggestion, a qualm, a spell, something – drop a review. I'm always up for ideas.**

**Toodles.**

**Whispers out.**


	3. Samhain

_Sacrifice: Rise From The Ashes_

_by Whispers Of A Mad God_

_Chapter Three; Of Cloaks And Masks: Samhain_

* * *

**November 2, X773**

**Unknown Location, South-East of Fiore**

**Unnamed Coastal Ship: Cargo Hull**

**Amaryllis Potter-Black / Heartfilia**

* * *

When I awoke, I immediately dropped into a heightened sense of awareness.

During my Fifth Year back in the Wizarding World, I spent five hours a week under the merciless tutelage of Alastor Mad-Eye Moody. He was fond of dropping by at random times as well, sometimes popping out from underneath his Invisibility Cloak with a shout of _"constant vigilance!" _during the middle of Arithmancy. It got to the point where the entirety of the staff at Hogwarts voted to ban him from the castle, and I had to Floo to his private estate for my lessons.

So when I rose from the groggy depths of forced unconsciousness, my mind immediately began to supply me with details of not only my surroundings but my last waking memories, escape plans, and the location of my prized possessions.

I was on a seafaring boat: the soft sway, the pounding of the waves against the mast, and the salty tang to the air lay credence to that. Light was scarce, and coming from what appeared to be a semi-charged lacryma embedded in the ceiling. Underneath the sharp scent of the sea lay the awful stench of unwashed flesh, sweat, and traces of metallic blood.

The witch's costume I had ironically dressed in for Halloween was nowhere to be found, and I was instead wearing only my shift, tight slacks, and knee-high leather boots. My four keys were still inked around my left wrist, as they likely would be until my dying day. The knife I kept hidden in my right boot was missing, as I expected.

I opened my eyes and shifted to an upright position. I tucked an errant lock of Lily's dark red hair behind an ear, and knew there was no hope in keeping my status as a metamorph secret: my body morphs on its own far too often. I grit my teeth but failed to contain a moan, as my battered body and – to my horror – a bleeding and torn leg refused to cooperate.

No wonder I was so exhausted; my magical core must've been pumping energy into the wound in an attempt to heal it. I'll be running on empty for a week at the least.

"Amy!" The kinetic force of a flying six-year-old knocked me on my side, and I struggled to breathe. Lucy wrapped her pale arms around my waist and nuzzled into my shoulder. "Flower, I thought... I thought you wouldn't ever wake up."

"Lucy?" I coughed, my mind running a mile a minute. I twisted until I was seated upright, and I pulled Lucy onto my lap. "What happened? Where are we, Rose?"

"You mean, you don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

"The... the attack." She sniffed and tried to create a mask of bravery, but as her sister I could tell she was terrified. Tears glistened in her chocolate eyes but refused to fall. "It was two days ago."

"Rose," I began, using the pet name for my little sister only I could use, my voice deadly serious. "Tell me what happened."

Her mask slipped, and a tear fell. "... Okay."

And as she spoke, my own memories began to fill in the gaps...

_ Never will I be able to board a rolling train without first thinking wistfully of the Hogwarts Express. Despite (or, perhaps, because of) its gaudy red paint job, its cramped hallways and booths, its incessant and irritatingly loud engine, and the usual Slytherin encounter, the Hogwarts Express will always hold a tender place in my heart. It was symbolic, really; it would have been so much easier to just Floo to Hogsmeade from Kings Cross or, truthfully, our own homes, but that isn't the point._

_ Here in Fiore, trains have a much more utility function: actually transporting people and goods from place to place. It is amusing to realize just how much the Wizarding World takes for granted instantaneous travel. Between Portkeys, Apparition, and the Floo (not to mention the more esoteric methods, such as phoenix traveling and vanishing cabinets), the Wizarding populace might as well be one large, interconnected commune._

_ And while never again will I be able to use my portable Floo, there is no Wizarding government around pointing fingers and watching for illegal Portkeys; ergo, there is nothing stopping me from popping a Portkey here for when Apparition isn't feasible. And while I won't acquire a wand and the ability to activate either until I'm eleven, the knowledge that trains are a choice rather than a necessity allows me to admire the view and enjoy the experience._

_ Otherwise I fear I might act as Lucy currently is – bored out of her mind with a touch of motion sickness. The hood of her Little Red Riding Hood costume was down and she was snuggled against Mother's side. Mother was Partial Summoning her key of Lupus the Wolf, giving her the ears and tail – decorative leather armor completed the look._

_ I found the entire scene to be utterly adorable. I was curious, though, why Earthland and Earth had such similar cultures; I'd have to ask Death next time I was pulled into a waking dream with him. In the end, though, such questions were ultimately irrelevant._

_ I adjusted the brim of my witch's hat and couldn't repress a smirk. I wore casual black robes that any of the Wizarding middle class would wear for a trip to Diagon Alley, and the servants of Heartfilia Manor ooh'd and aah'd for a solid three minutes. I even whittled down a stick of holly wood from a local tree to an approximate representation of my actual wand, and tucked it behind my ear as a makeshift ornament. The entire ordeal was endlessly amusing._

_ Tiring of the view of rolling hills and dazzling skies from the window beside me, I pulled a small book from a fold in my robes. I had found it deep in Heartfilia Library, and was amazed to see it was enchanted. The language shifted to show the English of my homeworld, despite everyone in Fiore speaking a different language entirely. Not only that, but it held the same properties of a Never-Ending Journal; despite appearing only eighty pages long, it held entire chapters of information on each deity to ever be worshiped in Fiore._

_ The journal was titled the Lost Mythos of the Thousand Gods. Many I had heart tale of back on my (original) world: such as Neptune, Thanatos, and Anubis. Others were completely unique, like the Seraphim Gods and the Fallen God. Others were a mixture, like Prometheus being the weakest of all the Sun Gods and being renowned for bringing magic to the human race._

_ I didn't believe any of it, but one thing did catch my eye: the story of the Goddess of Strife, the Morrigan. Here in Fiore, she was the Goddess with a domain that includes combat, suffering, wolves, crows, foxes, venom, and redemption. She was also said to have a close relationship with the other Gods of Death._

_ I had never been religious, but if I had, she would be the one I would worship. I could use some luck or aid in those areas._

_ An hour later we disembarked and began to wander around the local city, Tressalyn._

"... Everything was going great, at first. All the people had such lovely costumes. You were nervous, but... you never did like Halloween. I don't think I do anymore, either. It was nearing the end of the night, and these people... they had black cloaks, and- and white masks, but I thought they were just wearing costumes, you know? But when you saw them, you went real still... then- then they began to use magic. And... it was _awful,_ Flower."

_My first thought, when I saw the cultists?_

_ Death Eaters._

_ They had the same long, black cloaks, fluttering in the wind. Their masks were a fair bit different, but still bone-white and spectral. Not a one of them had wands; instead, they had knives, swords, and some kind of metallic spear. As a unit, they clicked a hidden button on their blades. Electricity flared to life, pulsing through their myriad weaponry._

_ I instantly knew they weren't friendly._

_ "Open! Gate of the Chisel! Caelum!" I summoned the only spirit I could for longer than a handful of minutes. Mother had summoned Cancer and Lupus the Wolf, and was likely regretting not bringing all of her keys with her. She was yelling for Lucy to get behind her, to hide from the cultists._

_ Caelum shifted from its sword form to a matching set of trench knives: long, thin, and more akin to short swords than actual daggers. I stayed back near my family, but it didn't do anyone any good._

_ A thrown knife, crackling with near-lethal electricity, sung through the air. When the blade impaled itself in my leg, the wound felt oddly painless. Almost... euphoric._

_ As I fell to the ground in a heap, I could almost hear Draco shaking his head at my terrible performance tonight. Perhaps, if I had my wands... But, no. _

_ I blacked out to a cacophony of screams and riotous laughter._

"Did... did Mum-"

"I don't know," Lucy cut in. I sighed and began to weave my fingers through her beautiful blonde hair. Time was meaningless in the hull of the ship, but a long time passed in silence. Eventually, Lucy spoke. "You were asleep when everyone introduced themselves."

"What're their names?" I eyed the seven others lazing around the cabin. I didn't really care, but anything to get her talking, and not thinking about our abduction.

"Well, the girl with the dark violet hair is a Sinclair..."

* * *

Lucy and I awoke some time later to the grating sound of a slaver banging against the wooden door. He slammed it open, terrifying the kid closest to him as he did so. He was dressed in full cultist regalia, his electrical spear pounding against the floor next to him. He glowered at each and every one of us, and I could see the hatred, loathing, and cruel glee in his eyes through the slits in his bone-white mask. He growled at us like a wild animal, reminding me of Fenrir Greyback had he ever worn the Death Eater raiment. "Get up off your asses and follow me. Anyone who tries to fuck with me gets thrown off the island."

_Island?_ I shook my head, intertwined my fingers with Lucy's, and walked after the (terrifying) man. We weaved through a handful of passageways, rising from the depths of the ship and towards the sun. He knocked on a thrice-locked iron door – four knocks, then two, then four again – and the door swung open. We shuffled through the maw of the beast and were promptly attacked by the blinding rays of dying sunlight and the rising moon.

"Welcome," our guide to hell told us. A cold laugh escaped his lips, echoing violently off his mask. "To the Tower of Heaven."

"Stop terrifyin' the merchandise, Kraken," a second slaver cut in. He stalked towards us, steel-toed boots clinking dangerously against the deck of the ship. He cast a cursory glance over our faces before ignoring us. "If one o' them faints again, who do you think'll have to carry the chit to their cell? Sure as hell it won' be you."

"Tch. Fucking Quartermaster." Kraken's cloak swirled around him and he strode off the ship towards the Tower. He barked a command and a threat over his shoulder. I didn't hear the words, my breath quickening, my heart hammering, my grip on Lucy's wrist tightening. We followed the slaver anyways.

He led us through a wide pair of heavy iron double-doors at the base of an imposing half-finished skyscraper. Up six flights of stairs we climbed, silent if not for the clinking of boots against metal and the distant hammering of construction. The hallways were whitewashed and pristine, evidence of a recent cleansing, likely by the other slaves abducted on the mainland and jailed here for cheap labor.

Eventually Kraken guided us into what was obviously intended to be our sleeping quarters. Rows of cells lined both walls, clasped with dual locks forcing closed swinging doors, barring any escape. They were about the same size as my bedroom, barely capable of fitting the maximum occupancy per cell of ten persons. There was a thin, horizontal window near the ceiling of each, venting and drafting the air and maintaining a constant temperature. Bar the prisoners themselves, the cells were empty of all but thin, reedy mattresses, keeping the slaves comfortable enough to survive without getting sick and reducing productivity. After all, it's cheaper to keep their prisoners more-or-less healthy than it is to replace them every season.

Of the nine of us, three were locked in the cells of what the plaque above the doorway told us was _Cell Block A, Seventh Floor. _The first two were fully-grown adult men, and were unceremoniously thrown into the second cell we passed. The third was Sinclair or something, a pale, raven-haired girl with violet streaks no older than eight years of age, who had hauntingly familiar and bright lavender eyes. She was jailed in the same cell as three other children and six adults.

Those of us remaining trudged up to _Cell Block E, Ninth Floor_ and were separated once again. Lucy and I were ushered roughly into the third cell on the left. Tears tracked down my little sister's face as the disbelief in her situation finally evaporated, and the realization that _this is really happening_ became known. Then, a voice spoke.

"Hey. Welcome to the Tower." The voice belonged to a blue-haired kid with a strange, red tattoo underneath his eye. He rose from his crouch with an easy grin, striding over to us and holding his hand out to Lucy. She took it shyly, smiling despite the tears in her eyes. "The name's Jellal."

* * *

Our first night in the Tower was spent familiarizing ourselves with our grimy yet oddly bright cellmates. I blamed their lack of fear and despair in their situation on the presence of both one Jellal Fernandes, who for an eight-year-old was a surprisingly motivational orator, and "Grandpa" Rob, who told stories of heroes and wizards and princesses. Lucy was enthralled; I spent my time mulling over our new 'family.'

Jellal Fernandes had a heart of gold, that much was clear to anyone who look twice; and upon looking thrice, it became clear to me that he possessed a soul that would not survive a war. I would know; I've seen his type back in the Wizarding World, filled with well-meaning intentions and would throw Stunners around like no-one's business, but end up falling to a Cruciatus in the back. He was the ultimate Light Wizard: all righteous indignation but missing that spark of realism required to realize that to save the innocent, first the guilty must be put down.

That's not to say he was wrong; no, in small doses and from a position of authority his moral code was unmatched. His opinions reminded me a bit of a young Dumbledore, actually. But while ditching the stick and holding out both carrots worked well on the occasional Death Eater, such an attitude will see us locked in these cells for the rest of our lives. For it was precisely Dumbledore's stance on unlimited second chances that allowed the Second Blood War to happen, which resulted in the deaths of everyone I've ever cared about.

They say _'the road to hell is paved with good intentions.'_ Had Jellal been in charge, we would all be damned. If we really wanted to escape the Tower, we'd first need to kill those who hold our leashes. It really was the only way.

Grandpa Rob was the second cellmate to greet us. I liked the man immediately. Being the only person in the cell older than the age of twelve (besides me, but I wasn't about to tell him that), he took it on himself to keep us fed and watered, healthy, and well-educated; mostly by telling us tall tales of his days at Fairy Tail with his wizard team, the moral of each story being twisted and convoluted in such a way as to make him out to be always in the right. But I didn't hold such a thing against him. It was clear to me that he lived for the adoration in the eyes of the children.

It was also crystal clear to me that Grandpa Rob didn't think he would survive the Tower. He believed we would, though; or, rather, he needed to believe it to sleep at night. Once my eleventh birthday rolled around and the Hallows and my holly wand were returned to me, I would prove him wrong and allow him some last years with Makarov and Porlyusica. Assuming we all survived that long.

Then came Sho. I hated him immediately. He reminded me of what Padfoot says Wormtail was like in the early years of Hogwarts, but with a dash of naïve arrogance and optimism. Lucy liked him well enough, but my adorable sister liked everybody.

Wally was next. I really didn't care for the kid either way. There comes a certain point in every slave's life where the strife becomes accepted and they learn to harden their heart, but the guy just wouldn't stop bawling at the mention of his brother. He was ten years old and trapped in Hell on earth, so I couldn't really blame him. It just proved to me that when stress is forced against a human only two things could happen: the soul grows stronger or shatters entirely. (Of course, there's the Bellatrix Lestrange route as well: I will never forget her giggling under my Cruciatus during Fifth Year. My skill in the Dark Arts was awful at the time, but that was just humiliating.)

Simon was the only guy there that I really got along with. He was the big brother figure to us all, dependable and responsible to a fault. He acted far older than his ten years, making him the only person there I could really communicate with. My inner Hufflepuff was screaming at me to form a friendship with such a gem in the rough, but my Slytherin tendencies held my survival instinct in a vice-grip and told me not to make needless connections under duress. And I always listened to my Snake side first.

Although I flipped the bird to my inner Slytherin when it demanded I keep my distance from the last person in the cell. She was an adorable feline girl by the name of Millianna, who everyone called Milli. Twice during our first night she broke down and cried, but they weren't the same as the hopeless bawling of Wally. Rather, they were quiet and subdued tracks of tears, as if she was ashamed that anyone saw her in a moment of weakness. When Lucy left my side to scoot closer to Grandpa Rob for one of his unrealistic stories, I made my move.

I rose on silent feet long practiced in the art of stealth and strode over to the kitten. Settling down next to her and against the cell's wall, I quietly slipped my arms around her waist, raising her up and seating her down on my lap. I said naught a word, and just ran my fingers through her messy hair and undoing the knots. She struggled at first, a mere token gesture; she relaxed soon enough and fell asleep curled up, her cheek resting against my shoulder, making cute kitten mewls in her sleep.

Everyone in the cell blinked and stared at me, and I gave them the glare of the Mistress of Death hardened by war and prepared to cast a thousand Cruciatus Curses to ensure victory. While diminished by my eight-year-old frame, the ruthless light flickering in my eyes was enough to quiet them.

It was a curious combination, I'll admit. The Hufflepuff mothering instincts mixed with a war veteran's mercilessness, transforming my usually silent and reserved self into a protective figure more intimidating that a dozen Molly Weasleys. It was a side effect of the us-versus-them mentality I had developed during the Second Blood War, a prerequisite to keeping my sanity throughout the horrors I witnessed.

And so Milli was informally inducted into my currently two-person family, falling under the aegis of the Lady of Houses Potter and Black, the Mistress of Death and whatever gods-awful acronym they created for me after my fall ending the Dark Lord Voldemort. My fatal flaw had always been obsessive loyalty, and that wasn't going to change any time soon.

(In a burst of terrifying introspection around my second seventh birthday, I realized that my sense of loyalty was a bit extreme, exceeding past my touch-and-go moral code. Had I been born into, say, the Malfoys, I would've been a Death Eater the likes of which would have Dumbledore weeping in fear. Upon discovering this particular epiphany, I shut down that train of thought and decided to never think of such a thing again.)

I fell asleep that way, the first night; and the night after that, and the night after _that..._

I only had to survive three years, then I could Apparate to the Magic Council and end this foolish operation of theirs. But I knew it was going to be a long three years.

* * *

**A/N: I don't do OCs, not in this fic anyways. Every named character is in either the Potterverse or the Fairy-Tail-verse. So how obvious is Sinclair's identity? I didn't exactly hide her. Ah, well. You'll see in Chapter Five if you can't figure it out.**

**(A lot of that introspection is included to showcase the differences between Amy and canon!Potter. She's really, really not just Harry with female parts.)**

**Toodles.**

**Whispers out.**


	4. The Second Potter-Black

_Sacrifice: Rise From The Ashes_

_by Whispers Of A Mad God_

_Chapter Four: The Second Potter-Black_

* * *

**November 3, X773 to January 1, X775 ~**

**The Tower of Heaven, Off The Coast of The Kingdom of Caelum, South of Fiore ~**

**Ninth Floor: Cell Block E: Cell Nine ~**

**Amaryllis Potter-Black / Heartfilia ~**

* * *

_"Time is a human creation,"_ or so Firenze had told me back in the Wizarding World. I hadn't understood what he meant at the time. I had nodded gravely at him, before turning and heading towards my Arithmancy class, deciding then and there that all centaurs are insane. But, now? With my day beginning at sunrise and ending at sunset, having not seen a clock or calender in what seemed like forever, time really did seem ethereal. And fifteen months passed in the blink of an eye, a moment that seemed to last an eternity.

I, along with everyone else either under five feet in height or twelve years of age, spent the majority of my time cleaning the Tower. We were never allowed in the cultists' quarters, instead washing the white walls of the completed portions of the Tower and picking the construction zones free of debris. Those with the strength to lift the equipment and building materials did so, while everyone else did the miscellaneous work. The days were grueling, the hot sun bearing down on us with oppressive heat or the night sky chilling us to the bone. I hated it with the entirety of my being.

It reminded me of the Dursleys. Day and night I would work, all the way up to my eleventh birthday when the acceptance letter came. My numbers and letters I taught to myself, studying in stolen moments under candlelight in my closet or in the backyard during one of Madame Petunia's neighborhood gatherings. Never was I allowed to attend school, and although the reasoning behind such a decision even I could agree with, I hated them all for it.

I grew to hate my talent as a metamorph long before I learned the name for it. It prevented me from attending kindergarten and elementary school, because I lacked proper control over such an overwhelming power. Even now, the talent runs away from me under even moderate emotional stress. But the worst part about it was the constant reminder of _magic_ that my differing hair, eyes, and face would give to the Dursleys, making the beatings harsher and the punishments stricter. And the hatred only grew.

It was that hatred that became the foundation for my talent in Dark magic.

But it also gave me an edge over the other slaves in not only the physical labor department, but on how to react to the vitriolic presence of the cultists. Through years of experience I knew to keep my head down and my voice low, out of sight and out of mind, a faceless body among the masses. And I knew that fighting back only gave them what they wanted, an excuse to up the ante on their frequent use of the Racking Curse.

I don't know if that is what they called it: the cultists only referred to it as the Punishment, but I recognized a Racking Curse when I saw one. They were commonly used in the old Pureblood families as a Wizarding alternate to spankings, and was basically a low-risk variation on the Cruciatus – not as painful, but not as likely to cause irreparable mental damage. Although instead of firing out from the end of an unyielding wand, their Curse required skin contact.

The First Rule of the Tower referred to the Racking Curse: _"never. Interrupt. The. Punishment."_ I assumed it was just so the cultists didn't have to recast it, but one day at the construction sight an hour before dusk I saw the real reason why.

_I heard a scream and swiveled around on instinct, catching the horrid sight of one of the cultists putting a slave under the Racking Curse. A dented pipe lay on the ground by him: he must've dropped it, bending it and wasting both the slavers' time and money. It was clear that such a thing pissed the guards off, causing him to instigate the Punishment and enforce control and dominion over the hapless slave. But once he got going he realized he didn't want to stop, cruel euphoria clouding his sadistically widened eyes._

_ I went back to work, eyes still following the drama but not wanting to incite their wrath down on my head. I had gotten used to the frequent utilization of the Curse in my months here and the sight before me wasn't any different then the other times. And while my inner Hufflepuff wanted to lash out and murder the cultist, my Slytherin side realized doing so would only further the suffering. And so I kept quiet._

_ It wasn't selfishness that motivated my inaction: well; not entirely. Dozens of times since my sentence in this hellhole I have been put under that very same Curse, and while it was nowhere near as lethal as Bellatrix Lestrange's Cruciatus, it was still potent enough to leave me trembling and spasming for hours. I didn't want to face that more than I had to, and neither did I want to further the torment of the poor sod that was under it at this very moment._

_ But then the unbelievable happened: one of the newer slaves, obviously still innocent to all this, screamed in horror. He charged forward in a brash attempt to end this sin, breaking the hold the cultist held on the prisoner's wrist in the meantime. The effect of the spell rebounded, turning the pain and severed nerves he was afflicting against the slave on himself._

_ For forty minutes the cultist screamed himself hoarse, thrashing against the construction ground. He stopped only once his magical core had completely depleted itself, leaving him in a temporary coma. I ran through all the magical theory I knew in my mind, trying to divine a reason for this phenomenon. Meanwhile?_

_ The noble fool who caused this mess died screaming._

Spells that require physical contact can be split into two categories: triggers and switches. The first worked like a button, where the wizard pulsed magic out of their core and into the target. The magic kept flowing for as long as the wizard actively pushed the energy out of his core, or until there is no magic left to do so. The second, however, was trickier.

The switch-style spells work like the light-switches back in the Muggle World, either on or off but never both. The Racking Curse in Fiore must be of the second type. After initiating physical contact, the spell is activated, essentially 'flipping the switch.' The Curse would then continue to be cast until the switch was flipped back to standby. However, in order to do so, a certain amount of mental concentration is required.

And when the physical contact needed for the spell to work is broken, the magic rebounds and begins to torture the wizard. Lost in throes of pain, they lack the mental dexterity required to break the hold of the spell and 'flip the switch,' as it were. They then suffer under the effects of their own magic until the entirety of their core is bled dry.

The nameless cultist I witnessed this happening to was actually quite lucky: he must be a naturally weak mage or had been already low on magic for the spell to only last forty consecutive minutes. Had such a thing happened to an adult me, my sanity would probably shatter after the first day or so.

I was extra careful not to be caught during Milli, Lucy and I's little trick after that display. My ruthlessness developed during the Second Blood War was only ever truly displayed when those I've marked as mine were in danger, and so far I've only witnessed Milli or Lucy being put under the Racking Curse a small handful of times. And each and every time I fell into a cold rage, wherein I decided that should I get the slightest opportunity, every last cultist would die. The only thing stopping me from beginning my crusade-slash-massacre was the grim realization that attempting to do so would only bring down the wrath of the slavers.

With my wands, I might be able to slaughter the whole lot of them; it would take at least a week of guerrilla warfare wherein I would hide under my Invisibility Cloak between attacks to recuperate, but I could probably do it. But my eleventh birthday wasn't until the end of July in X776, and I haven't been pulled into one of Death's waking dreams yet to request a loan. All I had were my four keys, still inked around my left wrist, and none of them were able to force their own Gates open like I read about in the family grimoire. Thirty seconds of Capricorn wasn't enough for the job, bar the fact that I would pass out afterwards. Corvus wasn't much of a fighter and Lupus couldn't take on that many, not in an urban environment anyways. And a nine-year-old malnourished kid couldn't take on the entire legion of cultists, not even with Caelum summoned. I might kill one or two, but then my life would be forfeit.

Having power but not enough of it to realize change was somehow worse than not having power at all. So I fought back in other ways. Namely, thievery.

It was typically just Milli, Lucy and I, realizing that just the three of us had a higher likelihood of succeeding than a whole horde of pre-teens. Every sixth day the slavers' ships would dock on the island, carrying with it more depressed workers and a couple cartloads of food: namely bread, produce, and the occasional steak for the masked men themselves. Though once they anchored against the Tower's island they no longer wanted to work, and had us carry their crates and such to the storage rooms.

Instead, they would stand at each corner of the route we were slated to traverse to make sure we didn't wander off. The older slaves would carry the crates themselves, staggering along the white-washed floors and down into the bowels of the island. Those of us who were still children would be paired two or sometimes three to a crate, though we struggled descending the steep staircases on our short legs.

Our trick worked like thus: the three of us would be just rounding a corner and away from one guard's line of sight when Lucy would trip and tumble onto her ass. The one guard watching that segment of hallway would jerk his attention over to her while I, with the ever-changing faces, would sneak a hand in and snag an apple or orange or three. (The reaction of Cell Nine when they realized that my magic enabled me to change my appearance at will was both incredibly amusing and rather sad. I had won their undying respect and awe with that talent and had to entertain them with various changing hairstyles for the next month. The sheer boredom afflicting us all must have touched them in the head.)

We hit a couple snags as we went along, but most of the punishment was focused on me, and I could handle it far better than my sisters could. Also, the trick had the unique effect of working more often the more we did it: Lucy quickly earned a reputation among the guards of being a klutz, but one who was eager to jump right back up and to work. And for all their blood lust for torture, they weren't about to hit a seven-year-old girl with the Racking Curse several times every six days and risk losing her to madness or having her heart give out. Efficiency came first, so they weren't about to slow us down.

And since my face, hair, and eyes were always changing, they never associated me with the child who stole from the crates those times they did catch me. It was a clean slate every week on Storage Day. Eventually the three of us became quite skilled at our little game, although we were careful to never take too much, instead focusing on stealing just enough to augment our usual twice-daily slop and not become sick from hunger and abuse.

We never shared out trick with the other slaves. Call it selfish, call it pragmatism, but my sisters came first and I wasn't about to ruin a good thing in a noble and foolish attempt at including everyone else. Especially since Jellal was too Gryffindor _not_ to spread the idea around to half the prisoners on the Tower. I had my priorities, and they did not include saving the world – _again._ This was my second chance at life, and while it was pretty shitty at the moment, I wasn't going to goad Fate into making it even worse.

I had family to care for, this time around.

* * *

It was winter of X774 when Erza was jailed in Cell Nine alongside us and I decided to make Milli's adoption into the family official.

I had been braiding my feline little sister's hair from her position atop my lap when the swinging door to Cell Nine slammed open, revealing a view of three cultists and a stuttering redhead. I paused in surprise as the little girl was pushed into the cell, rolling painfully, before coming to a stop in the center of the room. The bastards laughed, slamming the door shut and striding off.

Jellal, every mother's favorite saint, was already up and on his feet and running over to the downed redhead. He gingerly scooped her up and carried Little Red bridal style over to the nearest wall, about ten paces away from Milli and I. He took a page out of my book and settled her down on his lap, the top of her skull coming up just below his chin and resting there.

Little Red struggled for a token minute just like Milli had, but eventually settled down to his soothing whispers. All was silent in Cell Nine as we allowed her the space and time to adjust to this admittedly unnerving environment. Milli glared at me, a cross look halfway between disappointment and boredom, and I realized with a start that I had paused in my braiding. I smiled and pecked her on the cheek, resuming my hair styling.

"My name is Grandpa Rob, child. And this is Simon, Sho, Wally, Lucy and her sister Amy, though everyone calls her Vixen for some reason, Millianna, and that fine gentleman is Jellal. What's your name, child?"

"Ah..." she coughed, blushing furiously. She clearly didn't care for all the attention. "Erza, mister. Just Erza."

_I think I prefer Little Red,_ I thought to myself in amusement. I always had a knack for nicknames, and had applied one to each of my allies in the resistance against the Dark Lord. The vast majority of them hated their new moniker but I never stopped for even a moment. I had far too much fun to cease and desist without being forced to.

Speaking of, it had been incredibly amusing when Simon had overheard my sweet sister Lucy calling me Vixen in the hallways one night. The name caught on, and now the entirety of Cell Nine called me by my Marauders' moniker. Only my sisters knew what the name meant, of course, making the entire situation even funnier.

"Just Erza?" Jellal asked, his breath cooling Little Red's neck. Her blush darkened, mortified by both Jellal and her reaction to him. I couldn't help but snicker at the girl's plight, causing Milli to smack me upside the head in retribution. "What, no last name? Mine's Fernandes."

"N-no... just Erza."

"Well that just won't do," Jellal murmured. I tilted my head to the side, suddenly wondering what Milli's last name is, if she even has one. The slavers had a talent for finding the orphaned and underprivileged. And while there was an unspoken rule not to talk about our pasts (a rule only Grandpa Rob broke), I desperately wanted that closeness with my newest sister achieved only by sharing black secrets. "How about we name you Scarlett? Just like your hair."

_And like your cheeks,_ I thought in amusement as Erza just about passed out from the heat of her darkening blush. I finished Milli's low braid and stroked my fingers through the tops of her hair, caressing the cat-like tufts and massaging her skull. After a long minute, I spoke. "Hey, little sis? What's your last name?"

"Don't have one."

"Hmm." I ran through my knowledge of blood magic, my search finding a perfect result and considering all the implications. Thanks to my status as the Mistress of Death, my soul still carried with it the experiences of my life back in the Wizarding World- that is how I retained my talent as a metamorph and an animagus, and how my magical core was pre-hardwired for Wizarding magic before I ever lifted a wand. It should also retain my body's 'feel' from when I was the daughter of Lily and James Potter, with the additional third parent of Sirius Black back in Fourth Year. I have, essentially, five biological parents in this form, though my metamorph status makes that all more or less irrelevant.

The blood adoption ritual I have in mind is modified from the original, where the blood given is not adopted as the mother or father, but rather the sister. A copy of the genetic make-up of both parents of the adopter are transferred to the recipient, giving her a second set of parents. And since legal parchmentwork was both impossible at this moment in time and something I did not care one whit for despite my upbringing as a Pureblood Princess in all but name, the ritual in question was perfect.

Being an ancient ritual from long before the creation of wands, it was one of the few magical rites I was able to enact before my eleventh birthday. It was also an instinctive beast, with a focus on the more primal things in life, like pack mentality and emotion. Thus, there was no complex runecraft dancing in perfect circles, no mind-numbing Arithmancy, no expensive and rare (or, rather, non-existent, considering I'm on a separate world) ingredients to burn as incense.

I had everything I needed: my mind, my magic, and my blood.

"Milli," I began, quietly enough that only she could hear. "How would you like to join my family not only in name, but in blood?"

She twisted in her perch on my lap, looking up at me and blinking owlishly. "How?"

"There's an old ritual I know. It's harmless; completely safe. It will, essentially, give you a second set of parents – _my_ parents. It's real easy. I can perform it right now, or whenever, really."

"Would that make me Lucy's blood sister too?" Her voice was quiet and awed, still entranced by the wonders of magic. It was an endearing trait.

"Perhaps. Not necessarily. I wasn't always a Heartfilia, you know. I used to be Amaryllis Potter-Black. That would be the name I would give you."

She blinked at me. "Really?"

"Yes." I smiled at her. "It's a long story – I'll tell you another night. Millianna Potter-Black: how do you like the sound of that?"

"Millianna Potter-Black..." she murmured, tasting the name on her lips. Suddenly, she giggled. "I like it."

"Would you like to do it, then, little sis?"

"Mm-hmm! What do I have to do, Vixie?"

I smirked. Only Milli can call me 'Vixie' without being ruthlessly ignored for a week. Padfoot used to call me that, and while I hated it at the time, I missed it now that he's gone. "All you have to do is lie still. I will spill three drops of my blood on your skin, but a moment later it'll vanish. That sound okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"Alright. Here goes." I dug my nail into my wrist, hard, breaking through the skin and releasing a slow stream of red fluid. I collected a single drop on the end of my index finger and held it aloft. _"Blood of the Sister, you shall watch over thee, under your guidance and by the strength of your unyielding resolve." _

The drop of blood dripped onto her wrist, forming the rune for _sister_ before dissolving into her bloodstream. A faint glow encased the both of us, although only we could see it, and the rest of Cell Nine was too busy entertaining Little Red to notice our exceedingly Dark ritual. I pricked a second drop of blood and continued the chant.

_"Blood of the Mother, you shall comfort thee, under your tutelage and by the strength of your undying love."_

The drop fell and landed on her collarbone, trailing down to her heart and forming the rune for _mother,_ before dissolving into her bloodstream yet again. The glow flickered, brightening and blinding our eyes. Still, not a soul noticed our ritual. A third drop of blood found its way onto my fingertip.

_"Blood of the Father, you shall protect thee, under your aegis and by the strength of your unbroken wisdom."_

The last of the drops of blood formed the rune for _father _upon her brow, before dissolving into her bloodstream. She blinked, the light becoming almost painful before vanishing as suddenly as it began. Milli shook away the after-images, looking up at me with beautiful stormy grey eyes.

And all I could do was smile.


	5. Through Trial, Comes Absolution

_Sacrifice: Rise From The Ashes_

_by Whispers Of A Mad God_

_Chapter Five: Through Trial, Comes Absolution_

* * *

**January 14, X775**

**The Tower of Heaven, Off The Coast of The Kingdom of Caelum, South of Fiore**

**Seventh Floor: Cell Block A: Cell Fourteen**

**Bellatrix Black / Sinclair**

* * *

"Mrow."

_ Giggling, I sat up in bed and held my hands out. Lola, our devilishly adorable salt-and-pepper kitty, stalked towards me with feline grace and the arrogance only cats and humans could achieve. I picked her up gingerly and placed her on my lap, cooing at her and stroking her fur lovingly. For long minutes I did nothing other than nuzzle her and giggle as she nuzzled back. Then the Bloodlust struck me like a freight train, and I wanted nothing more than to snatch my blade and murder something._

_ But I grit my teeth and shrugged it off._

_Ever since I could walk and talk and comprehend the meaning of the word_ "regret"_ I've had the overwhelming desire to hurt things. When I approached Father about it, he just sighed and told me to take it out on the dummies in the gymnasium. He told me that's what he had to do, and what his father had to do before him. He told me that the Bloodlust was a Sinclair family trait, and that succumbing to that desire was a sign of weakness, and did I want to be known as weak and a traitor to the House? We already had a dark reputation bolstered by our ruthlessness and sadism, and despite two generations of impeccable actions we were still watched closely when journeying to the cities of Fiore._

"When you're older, Bella, love," _he would continue._ "When you're older, I'll teach you to wield the Sinclair family blade. And you will sate that Bloodlust on the only creatures who deserve no quarter. The filth who inhabit the wilds: demons, Vulcans, and the like. And perhaps... perhaps you can transform our family curse into a gift. Leash that merciless streak and become a guild mage. Cleanse our family name."

_ And when I turned six and made the decision to realize all those childhood dreams, my wand returned to me. Even worse, though, is when my memories returned with it._

_ In both lives I've born this sadism- this hatred- this_ undying, unyielding, unbroken curse. _As a Sinclair, I'm ashamed of it, and wish for nothing more than the power to rise above it. But as a Black, I embraced it: I was raised from the cradle to uphold the mantle of a Dark witch._

"When you're older, Bellatrix," _my Mother would tell me._ "When you're older, you will attend Hogwarts. You will be surrounded by blood traitors and muggle-lovers, Mudbloods and filth. Do not associate with them, for you are a Black; you are pure of blood, and you will show them why they are inferior to us. Use that sadism of yours to make them fear us like they should."

_ Black Manor was drenched in Dark magic: it pressed upon me since the day I was born. The Dark won in every storybook read to me; the Dark spells were listed alphabetically in the library for ease of perusal; the virtues of the Dark were sung at every family gathering._ For eleven years_ I was surrounded by the Dark, and the treatment only continued at Slytherin House._

_ For showing compassion, I was hit with the Racking Curse; for showing cruelty, I was given a bowl of ice cream. A predilection for hatred and sadism was only compounded by the life I had lived as a Black. As a Sinclair, though..._

_ The life of Bellatrix Lestrange served as a cautionary tale, now. What had the Dark given me? Andromeda, disowned and never seen again, happier without me. Sirius, disowned and fighting for the Light, glaring at me with such hatred, shoved through the Veil by my hand. Regulus, killed by the Dark Lord himself. Even Narcissa turned at the end, helping the Potter girl, and for what – for her child, for_ love?_ I could still feel the oppression of the Dementors, the nightmares and the pain._ Fourteen years_ I was stuck on Azkaban, a fate worse than death..._

_ Well. Is it any surprise I was insane?_

_ And so I fought the Bloodlust. These past eight years, I've fought it with my entire mind, body, and soul. Come hell or high water, I would go kicking and screaming. No matter how much I wanted to _just give in...

_ The Bloodlust struck me a second time. I trembled under it, refusing. I had gone an entire month without hurting anything, and every day it just got harder. Sharpened incisors scraped against my tongue, and I relished in the pain, the hot, sticky blood. That faint, metallic aftertaste... Damn. At last, the Bloodlust passed._

_ It'd be back, though. And it'd just be stronger._

_ Sighing, I lifted little Lola up and placed her gently on my pillow. I murmured affectionate nothings as I slipped out from underneath the silver and royal blue sheets, the colors of House Sinclair. Graceful was my stride as I passed from one end of the room to the other. Stopping in between the ornate standing mirror and the sleek, mahogany wardrobe, I stripped out of my silk nightclothes. _

_ I admired my form for only a minute, the Black family vanity coloring my sight. For all my second chance at life, I was still arrogant and proud of it. But as a Sinclair, I didn't speak of my superiority to the masses. It would be... _unbecoming._ I'm aware of it, so why speak of it? It was a crucial difference between my current House and my last one._

_ Smirking wickedly, I clipped my chin-length raven bangs out of my violet eyes with a sapphire broach, tied my waist-length locks in a low tail, and dressed myself in my trademark combat armor. I admired the tattoo of the Sinclair family motto upon my collar bone in royal blue._

"Through Trial, Comes Absolution."

_ Black panties and corset with deep blue lace. Dark stockings stretching up to my thighs. Slim and sleeveless leather armor trailing down from my shoulders to hug my hips, ending with a short skirt of the darkest black, gleaming with high-class permanent royal blue dye. Knee-high boots and gauntlets of the same hue, buckled with cold iron or fitted with finger-less gloves. _

_ I contemplated casting a warming charm to protect myself from the snow and wind chill, but didn't want to drain my magical core. Instead I donned and buttoned a thick cloak dyed a rich, royal blue with a slate-silver hem, flawlessly matching my custom armor. The Sinclair family crest was embroidered on the back in silver: downturned, crossed katanas over an open flame._

_ I affixed the sheathe to my custom weapon over my cloak, a modified baldric running from my right shoulder to my left hip. The blade itself came next, composed of interlocking silver metal segments with a handle, crossguard, and streaks of royal blue. The Sinclair family crest was burned into the hilt, crossguard, and both sides of the blade._

_ I had crafted it myself, and was immensely proud of both that fact and the weapon itself. It could transform into a high-caliber semi-automatic rifle, capable of storing twelve rounds each of three different flavors of bullets: currently Kinetic, Flame, and Lightning. The underside of the rifle form was edged just as wickedly as the katana form,_ just in case_._

_ I had imagined struggling with a moniker for such a creation. I surprised myself when the perfect name came to me instantly. When I realized it, I couldn't help but laugh: a warm, hyper-affectionate, yet slightly insane sound._

_ And so I named the rifle blade Purity._

_ I always did consider myself pure: both as a Black and as a Sinclair. Flawless. Superior. But the fall of my first life and the lessons learned in my second had disillusioned me from my delusions. I now realized that purity was a double-edged sword, and that I had bled myself as surely as I had bled that Mudblood Granger._

_ For in the end, few suffered more than I did._

_ I unclasped the locks to the window and threw the panel wide open. Stepping through, I slid it closed and turned to view the local forest. I couldn't help but marvel at the beauty; snow fell lightly, sprinkling the pine trees and covering the landscape in a dazzling white. The moon hung high in the air, shining upon all with its grandfatherly grace. A handful of mountains reclined in the backdrop, completing the picture of beauty and serene peace._

_ And disrupting that scene, the creatures. Vulcans. Wyverns. Filth._

_ The Bloodlust hit me for a third time, twice as strong and here to stay. I channeled it towards my hatred of the beasts. And while I knew such a technique and emotion was unhealthy, it has proved a superior coping mechanism for my sadism than simply letting it rage. I drew my wand and cast a Disillusionment Charm over myself._

_ And dropped out of the window and into the forest, a wicked grin on my face, and blood on my mind._

* * *

I awoke to the sight of a kneeling Sorano, beautiful white hair splayed around her and trailing against my face. Her voice was urgent and worried, her shining indigo eyes narrowed in deep thought, her teeth nibbling pink lips. "Bella," she began, voice low but earnest. "I hear footsteps- lots of them."

"Thanks for waking me up." While it was still... _difficult..._ for me to apologize or show gratitude, I have been improving. And it was important to be awake those rare times a cultist or seven showed up out of the regularly scheduled dawn and dusk. They had a tendency to violently wake the slaves who weren't paying them the utmost attention. It was... _unpleasant. _"Do you have any idea what they're doing up..." I looked out the window and at the black, starry sky. "In the middle of the night?"

"Haven't a clue. Couldn't sleep, so I was playing tic-tac-toe on the north wall with Erik." My lips twitched into a smirk at that. Erik was the only male outside my family that I've ever been able to put up with. Among my cellmates, Richard and Sawyer had irritating personalities, so loud and energetic and _grating._ And Macbeth was constantly depressed and kept to himself, which was fine by me.

"Well?"

Sorano blinked, long eyelashes fluttering. "Well, what?"

"Did you win?"

She laughed. "No, Erik is unnatur-"

_CRASH._

The six of us in Cell Fourteen flinched as the resounding smash of the barred door slamming into the wall echoed across our prison, showcasing the horrifying view of a half-dozen cultists dragging behind them a battered and bleeding child. She had deep, crimson hair, the color of the blood staining her shift. Her skin was unnaturally pale even for a slave of the Tower. She couldn't have been any older than me.

"Play nice." The gravelly and sadistic voice of the cultist known across the entirety of the Tower as Kraken ground out of the lead slaver. He grabbed the hapless girl by her hair and threw her deep into the cell. The six of us were dead silent as the masked men filed out of Cell Fourteen, shutting the door behind them with a resounding _bang,_ and leaving us to our own devices.

There was a long moment of silence.

Erik broke it by leaping to his feet and sprinting to our newest cellmate. He rolled her over, raising her head and resting it on his lap. He murmured soothing nothings in her ear in an attempt to calm her. She was unresponsive, dazed with a probable migraine, eyes half-closed and gazing listlessly at the ceiling.

I rose gracefully to my feet, above crawling even in such a despicable atmosphere, and strode silently over to the girl. It would be nice to have another female voice around, if only to keep the annoying boys away. Except for Erik; Erik was alright.

I kneeled in front of her and gasped in surprise and despair when the girl opened her eyes, revealing _Avada Kedavra_ green orbs.

She saw me, recognized me instantly, and screamed in fear. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, lids closing around them subconsciously as she blacked out. Her hair rapidly bleached itself, whitening to a pure, snowy hue.

_Probably should've expected that._

"Ah... Bella?" Erik licked his lips, eyeing me with a confused expression clouding his handsome features. "You know this girl?"

"You can say that." My voice was a soft whisper. Memories of the Second Blood War were coursing through my mind, memories of torture and murder. I had been _so proud..._ but I had a better upbringing this second life of mine, a Light upbringing, and I recognized a psychopath when I saw one, and I fit the bill. I crawled over to the wall, aristocracy virtues be damned, and buried my head in my hands. My voice came out muffled, quiet. "I knew her years ago."

"What do you mean? You're barely ten years old yet." Sorano cut in, walking over to me and dropping into a cross-legged seating position aside me. She hummed, resting her head against my shoulder. I licked my lips, teething it and wondering what to say. Sighing, I realized I had nothing to lose by telling them everything.

"I, ah..." I coughed into my forearm, unsure of how to explain this. "You guys ever hear of reincarnation?"

* * *

_"No. Way."_

All five of them – Sawyer, Richard, Erik, Sorano, and even Macbeth – had been drawn into my story. I told them everything but the grisly details: I told them of life at Black Manor; of Hogwarts; of a different kind of magic; of the First Blood War; of Azkaban; and of the Second Blood War. And most importantly, I told them of Amaryllis Potter-Black and why she would be so afraid of me.

To say it was hard to swallow would be an understatement. But they weren't idiotic enough to disbelieve me, not when the truth and the pain is shining in my lavender eyes. And while I'm still a bit of a psychopath with traces of a sociopath, Father had instilled in me a deep moral code, forcing me to recite it every night before bed and every morning at dawn – I wouldn't make the same mistakes again.

"Oh, Bella, it's not-"

"Don't complete that sentence, Sorano," Erik cut in. He caught my eyes, staring straight into my soul with a hard light in his black orbs. "Bellatrix ruined a lot of lives in her day. And I realize my own moral compass is a bit fucked up, but I was taught to always pay my debts. The people she murdered may not be around anymore, but this girl here – Amy, yeah? You can make it up to her. Telling Bella it isn't her fault would demean all those people whose lives she fucked with, Sorano. She's a big girl. She can handle the truth."

"Sorry. Okay, Erik."

"No problem, Sorano. You're a sweet girl."

Erik was our unofficial leader. Always had been. Macbeth hardly had the willpower to lead himself. Sawyer lacked the maturity and grounding. Richard was obsessive compulsive and lacked the proper perspective. Sorano was still innocent and kind in far too many ways to guide a group of troubled pre-teens. And I? I was a psychopath.

I was loyal. Always had been. The problem began when I pledged my loyalty not only to my parents' cause, but to the Dark Lord, instead of the Black family like I should have. And despite my Sinclair moral code, I would still murder and torture to protect those I've pledged to follow. No longer would I be a wild psychopath – I would be a targeted psychopath, releasing my sadism on my enemies.

It's why I had wanted to be a guild mage. I could uphold the Sinclair creed while satisfying my Bloodlust. A perfect solution to a shitty problem. And, maybe, earn myself a little notoriety while I'm at it. I always wanted to see my name up in shining lights.

_"Ah... fuck. Merlin..."_ All conversation died as the Golden Girl who developed a penchant for the Killing Curse during the Second Blood War and earned even my respect doing it roused from unconsciousness. Her voice was hoarse yet velvety soft, quiet nearly to the point of inaudible. She blinked up at Erik, twisted around to catch my eyes, and hummed. "Huh. Hey, Trixie. I thought I was dreaming."

My eyes widened. _Did she really just...?_ "You're awfully... calm, about seeing me."

"Tired."

"We can see that," Sorano cut in.

"I'll flip out tomorrow. M' sleep now."

Long moments passed in mildly alarmed silence.

"Nev'mind. Can' sleep." She squirmed in Erik's lap, yawning. Whatever she went through that harmed her _that_ much must've also touched her in the head. Her magic will heal her, though... eventually. Probably. Maybe? Most likely. "M' names Amy."

"Sorano."

"The name's Erik."

"... Macbeth."

" And I'm Sawyer."

"You can call me Richard."

"And I'm Bella. Bellatrix Sinclair. But... everyone just calls me Bella."

"Sure they do." Amaryllis yawned, stretching adorably. "My Slytherin side thinks I should slit your throat. My Hufflepuff side wants to give you a second chance. So I'll reserve judgment for some day when my head isn't pounding as loud as a Gryffindor Quidditch rave." The emotional, sore loser side of me wanted to make a snide remark about the Golden Girl having a Slytherin aspect at all, but the rational part of my mind remembered her skill with the Dark Arts during the end of the Second Blood War and wisely kept quiet.

It was insane to see someone from my old life; made all those awful memories of Black that I've repressed feel so much more real. It was even more surreal seeing someone I had once hated with such passion. Especially when I felt the same draw I have for Sorano and Lola, the desire to _protect_ and _soothe_ and _kill everyone who dare threaten **my**- _

I had felt the same way if in greater amounts for Narcissa when we were young. A terrible, psychotic, possessive obsession: the closest I could get to _love_ back when I was Bellatrix Black. Sorano had become a surrogate sister of sorts, and after being thrown, bleeding and battered, into Cell Fourteen, Amy – once my greatest enemy – had become one as well. And while I feel nothing but regret and some lingering negative emotions for her at the moment, the foundation was there to become a second sister.

And that terrified me. I had so much to be sorry for... even if I couldn't bring myself to actually apologize. I was a Sinclair, damn it, perfection was a requirement for the job, and the perfect have no need for apologies. The perfect don't fuck up as horribly as I did.

"Amy?" Sorano asked, voice pitched low and shy.

"Uh-huh?" Her voice was still quiet, and I had to strain to hear it.

"What did they do to you?"

I was curious as well. Amy, to put it bluntly, looked like shit. Her skin, despite her talent as a metamorph I had already explained to Cell Fourteen, was bruised and battered, cut and barely scabbing over. Her usually flawless hair, beautiful even in the midst of war, was still white as snow but lanky and greasy. Her sharp green eyes looked more sickly than their usually vibrant shade. And she was constantly swallowing, as if there was an incurable dryness to her throat.

My Bloodlust rose again, and I fed it towards my hatred of the cultists. I will have my ten-thousand pounds of flesh one of these days. I wasn't reformed enough to say no to a little slaughter and, if Erik doesn't hold me back, Cruciatus or twelve. If only my wand wasn't still back at Sinclair Manor...

"Yeah. 'Bout that. You ever hear of a little brew called the Banshee's Draught?"

"Fuck. They did, didn't they? _Gods."_ Erik swore, rubbing his free hand through his short, raven hair in exasperation. His off hand had begun to thread through the semi-lucid Potter girl's thick hair. A malevolent light danced in his eyes. He must've felt it, too- Amy was one of us, now. Camaraderie born through strife and all of that. The cultists have already dug their own graves, now they decorated them with sharpened spears and vats of acid.

"Um, explain, please? Banshee's Draught?" Sorano blinked up at our de facto leader, not familiar with the elixir in question. I wasn't either; while I knew countless Dark potions from the Wizarding World, Fiore's was another matter entirely.

"I'd like to know as well."

"Banshees are famous for their screeching, yeah? The Banshee's Draught is an acid that targets the throat. Dark magic, really, really Dark. Makes it so you can't ever speak again. Really painful, too."

"Then how can she still talk?" Richard cut in.

"Right here, guys." Amy coughed, the sound just as near-inaudible as her exhausted voice. "They must've bought it from a really shitty alchemist. Only thing I can think of. Even still, talking... well. Not fun. And the shriek when I saw dear Bella's face? Yeah. Hurt like a Bludgeoner to the kisser." I winced at her words, remembering that from the day of my death. I regretted it, not from some skewed sense of morality, but in that I harmed my recent ally. Even in the dead silence of Cell Fourteen in the Tower, I had to strain to hear her words. She was barely a step above being a mute.

"Can you tell us how this happened, Amy?"

"... Sure. Why not. So two weeks or so ago, my sisters and I were stealing fruit from the supply train..."

* * *

**A/N: Nearing the end of the Tower arc. I'm not skilled with writing immature characters, which is the primary reason I included it in the first place; I needed them to grow up right quick. Chapter Seven will be the Slaves' Revolt. You won't see much if any Erza and Jellal in that chapter, as their drama plays out exactly as it has in canon, and I don't want to waste time rehashing it. Instead you'll see Cell Fourteen's reaction to an impromptu prison riot, which will delve into their personalities a bit more and you'll see that Bella still has (far too much) Black blood in her.**

**These early chapters are more of an extended prologue than anything, what with all the time-skipping. The fun begins on her eleventh birthday when she re-acquires dual wands of holly and of elder.**

**(If you think that Amy forgave Bella awful quick, that's because she didn't. When she's stressed, healing, or hurt, her mind-to-mouth filters shut down and you see just how much like James she really is.)**

**Toodles. Whispers out.**


End file.
